


Perfect Day

by San



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/San/pseuds/San
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things go from bad, to worse, to f*ck it all for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect Day

"Christ almighty," Charley said, jaw clenched, as they walked away from the check-in counter. John sighed and scratched the inside of one eyebrow, long acquainted with the tall singer's temper. "Whose fuck-up is this?"

John shrugged. "I don't know, Charley," he answered, trying to maintain his calm, "but shouting at the clerk isn't going to solve anything."

Charley snorted. "It makes me bloody feel better," he said, but his voice was heavier with amusement than irritation. "What am I supposed to do now? The whole hotel is booked, he says."

John rolled his eyes. "Look, if it'll keep you from maiming the help, we can share a room - you can lodge your stuff there and we'll check back in the morning to see if they've had any cancellations."

Charley made a noise of disgust deep in his throat, but didn't comment further as John scanned the room again, checking his watch.

John caught the attention of the bellman and sent the bags up to "their" room. He stretched out on the chair next to Charley, long legs stretched out across the floor, and folded his arms across his chest. His fingers tapped impatiently on his forearm to the rhythm of the music coming from the bar. He glanced over at Charley, whose attention was focused that direction, thinking again that he'd like to throttle Nick.

He wasn't there yet, though, and John reassured himself that _of course_ the keyboardist was running late - he always ran late - but John wouldn't relax until he was sure they were all in the hotel. John felt the sick knot of tension and useless worry at the base of his spine. Only halfway through the tour, and already he'd be glad when it was over and he could get back to L.A. for a while, away from this nuthouse. He missed his daughter.

Charley touched his shoulder, and John glanced his way.

"Then again, I could just curl up with a leggy brunette," He commented with a sly grin. John followed his gaze with a sigh. He had to admit, she was pretty - young, of course, but tall, with brown hair curling in shiny waves down to her shoulders, her shapely legs shown off to good effect by the short, tight skirt she wore.

Charley was off without even an "excuse me," and John grimaced exasperatedly as he leaned back so that the back of his head touched the chair. He shut his eyes, trying to ignore both the threatening headache and the sudden craving for a line.

"You don't really want one, you know."

"Yeah, I know," he said, tipping his head forward and opening his eyes. Nick stood in front of him, looking dapper as ever in his latest Armani, his topcoat folded neatly over his arm. His eyes searched John's face for a moment, and then he shrugged and sat primly on the chair to John's right.

"What's going on?" he asked, hands calmly smoothing the pleat in his trousers.

"You are so vain," John commented. Nick looked at him, silently arcing one eloquent eyebrow.

"There was a fuck-up with the reservations. Seems Charley has no place to sleep tonight - you didn't have any problems, did you?"

"No, not at all. Everything went fine. I'll bet he's in a state."

"He was," John answered with another sigh. "I offered to share for the time being, although I'll be much happier if there's a cancellation in the morning so we can settle him elsewhere."

Nick smiled slightly. "Where is he now?"

John jerked his head toward the bar, wincing slightly as the injudicious movement started his head pounding. "Following some bird. And it will be just my luck that she won't be a guest at the hotel..."

Nick's smile grew more pronounced, and John sank further into his chair, folding his long arms over his chest again. "Yes, well, fuck you, too. All right, I'm whining. I'll stop."

Nick shook his head and patted John's shoulder condescendingly. "If worst comes to worst, you can always come to my room," he commented as he stood.

John snorted. "I wonder sometimes how it is that _he's_ still married. I wouldn't put up with it."

Nick grew very solemn, and John nearly groaned at his stupidity. If there were ever forbidden ground between the two of them, this was it, and he'd blithely stomped right into the middle of it.

"Whatever is between Charley and Yaz works, John. That's the difference," Nick said dourly.

They both sighed, and John looked down at his hands for a minute. It wasn't worth apologizing - in part because he knew Nick would forgive him without asking, but mostly because he wasn't sorry.

"Hello, Charley. I see we are all here after all," Nick said, and John glanced up at them.

"It's about time you got here," Charley answered tersely. John's eyebrow rose - he was alone - and he and Nick shared a momentary look.

"Listen, you lads don't have to hang about for me," he said, and John pushed his glasses up his nose as he gave Charley a disgusted look. "I'm going to be down here for a bit."

And with that he was gone again. John looked up at Nick, who was watching after Charley with just a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Not enough time?" John hazarded as he straightened up in the chair.

"I don't know," Nick answered, "but it _is_ late. Besides," and he broke into a sly grin, "he won't dare bring her up if he knows you're already in the bed."

"You may be right," John commented, hauling himself to his feet, "but I'm not counting on it. With my luck," he said as they walked to the elevator together, "he'll get just drunk enough not to _care_ that I'm in the bed."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The door slammed open, startling John out of a sound sleep. He came half-sitting up in the bed before he recognized the blurry shape in the doorway as Charley, and automatically glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Without his glasses or contacts all he could see was a vaguely luminescent blur, and so he flopped back down onto his pillow.

"Christ, Charley," he said groggily as he rolled over onto his side and covered his head with the pillow. He'd taken two aspirin before he'd gone to bed, but they had only just dulled the edge of his headache.

"Hmm? Oh right, Hell, sorry John," Charley answered. John bit the pillow to prevent himself from groaning as he caught the slur in Charley's voice. He closed the door with more care than he'd opened it, and John could hear him moving around the room cautiously. Charley was humming slightly under his breath as he made his way past the bed to the bathroom, a snippet of song John didn't quite recognize.

"One bed?" Charley asked as he flipped on the bathroom light.

"Of course," John answered tartly from beneath the pillow, "it's not like I was expecting to share with anyone, is it? Shut the bloody door, will you?"

Charley sniffed. "You needn't be a bastard about it," he said as he closed the bathroom door. John sighed, rolled over so that his back was to the light coming from beneath the doorway, and tried to relax again.

He had nearly drifted off again when Charley came out of the bathroom, shutting off the light, and said "Fucking unbelievable."

"What," John sighed, watching the white spot that was his pulse beat in his eyelids in time with his headache, "the room arrangements?"

"No - I mean yes, of course, but no," Charley said, going round and sitting on the other edge of the bed. "Girl _insisted_ on going home alone."

"Your ego will heal," John answered, too tired to be tactful.

"It's not that," Charley countered, flopping onto the bed, "but what am I to think?"

John rolled over, putting his back to again. "Good night, Charley," he said firmly.

"Really, John, you could be a little sympathetic. I mean -"

"Good NIGHT, Charley."

"Well, honestly, it's not like -"

John growled low in his throat.

"Oh, very well, John, but when I said I wanted to curl up with a leggy brunette, you were _not_ what I had in mind."

John pressed his face into his pillow and slowly counted to ten. Charley was snoring already by the time he reached eight.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

John slowly began to rouse, faintly aware of a band of heat across one leg where the sunshine had snuck its way through the heavy drapes, and a hand gently gripping his hip. Whoever had him was nibbling at the back of his neck and across his shoulders, causing his body to waken much faster than his brain. He could feel the pleasantly rough scrape of someone else's stubble against his shoulder blade: another man, then, although he wasn't quite awake enough to recall bringing anyone back to his room. He supposed he should think about it, but it was delightful to just lay still under the caresses. It had been a long time since anyone wanted to wake him so tenderly.

Not a bad way to be woken up, really. Certainly it was an improvement on the insistent hunger that usually roused him out of bed.

The lips on his shoulder had turned to a series of nibbling bites up the side of his neck, causing a happy shiver to run through John's body as the blood fled down to his groin. He lazily opened one eye to see who this was as the nibbles approached his jaw and the hand tightened on his hip.

His whole body went rigid and he shut his eyes again as Charley's mouth closed over his ear. Charley was sleeping - he _had_ to be, John couldn't imagine any other way this could be happening - and John licked his lips and struggled to get his brain back in control of his body as Charley's tongue flicked at his earring.

John tried to slip away from him, but Charley shifted his so his weight was more fully on John's back, his lips releasing John's ear so he could murmur something unintelligible against John's neck.

He lay very still for a minute, mind racing. Charley outweighed him by a fair amount, and John didn't particularly want to wake him up. Still, he had to do _something_ ; he shivered as Charley's hand released his hip, trailing up to his waist.

John reached out and grabbed the edge of the mattress, trying to get enough leverage to pull himself away from Charley. He couldn't quite manage; Charley wrapped his leg around John's and murmured something that might have been his wife's name.

"Charley," John said, softly, pushing carefully against Charley's chest with his captive elbow. "Charley, get off."

"Mmm."

"Goddamn it," he half-growled, applying as much upward pressure as he could manage with his elbow. Charley began nibbling at his jaw again.

"Damn it! Simon, I am _not_ your wife."

Charley grunted as John managed to dig him in the gut, his eyes fluttering - then abruptly popping open as he threw himself away from John with enough force that he cleared the other edge of the bed and landed heavily on the floor.

John followed him, starting to chuckle.

"Hey, Charley, you okay?"

"What the fuck were you playing at?" Charley demanded as he scrambled gracelessly to his feet, his voice rising almost hysterically. John's laughter died in his chest and he licked his lips. He could feel himself starting to flush, the heat rising in his cheeks with each heartbeat as he gawped at Charley, who paced over to the closet and pulled on the robe that was hanging over the door, swearing under his breath.

"You think _I_ started this?" John asked, blinking.

"You bet I do," Charley interrupted, ceasing his pacing and turning to face John, arms folded across his chest.

John met his gaze, eyes narrowed.

"You think this was _my_ idea of a good time? Think again, Simon," he said, sharply, forcing himself to grip the edge of the bed rather than allow his hands to ball up into fists.

"Bollocks," Simon answered, the heat in his voice enough to push John past his own flash point, "you've probably dreamed about this for years."

John stood up, his normal irritation with Simon's egocentrism abruptly a flame of anger.

" _Don't_ flatter yourself," he snarled, forcing Simon back a step as he leaned toward him, "I have _never_ been attracted to you. Not for _one moment. Ever_."

He saw Simon's jaw set, knew full well he had just struck Simon in the ego, where it would hurt him the most, and continued on before the singer could interrupt him.

"This," he said, gesturing at the bed, "was _all your doing_. I don't know who you were dreaming about, or who you thought I was, but I could _not_ wake you up, and you were all over me.

"You may want to believe this is someone else's fault, Simon, but don't blame _me_ for it. I was _defending_ myself."

John turned on his heel and stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him by falling against it as he began to shake. He reached back and locked the door even as he slid down it to sit on the floor, his knees refusing to hold him. He struggled with his anger, pressing his hands against his temples as he resisted the urge to bang his head into the door.

 _Oh, but it feels so good when I stop,_ he thought, bitterly. _Christ. Well, at least this is a_ new _thing to argue about._

It just wasn't funny; he dragged himself up off the floor and over to the shower and turned it on tepid. He leaned his forearm on the edge of the stall and rested his forehead against it, watching the water run down the drain. It took most of the anger with it; by the time he stepped into the shower all that was left was a knot of embarrassment and shame in his stomach. He shivered under the cool water, firmly instructing himself that he did _not_ want a line...or a drink...and hating the irony that this scene had completely destroyed his appetite for food.

By the time he had finished in the bathroom he could hear no movement from the bedroom and presumed Simon had left already - to move himself to another room, with any luck. He sighed as he opened the door. Time enough to face that problem at sound check.

A fine dusting of white powder on the edge of the dresser stopped him cold on his way to the closet. Knowing, he ruthlessly stomped on his first reaction and diverted to the bed, away from temptation. He could feel the morning's anger returning, and forced himself to unclench his fists, even as it mixed with shame; he couldn't decide if he was more irritated with Simon's thoughtlessness or the fact that he hadn't offered to share.

He caught himself looking at the dresser and licking his lips, and forced himself to his feet, to get dressed. His stomach churned with his emotions, and he could see the flush high in his cheeks as he paused to straighten his hair in the mirror. He had dressed to suit himself, not the rest of the band, in a pair of jeans threadbare at the knee and one of the ratty old sweatshirts he'd been dragging around for years. It gave him a grim sort of satisfaction to think of the disdainful looks that his wardrobe would earn him.

He ran his fingers through his hair one last time as he grabbed up the room key and stalked out into the hall.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It seemed hours later he found himself standing on a stage in the warm afternoon sun, absently fiddling with the tuning pegs on his bass. He had caught Nick watching him a couple of times, plainly wondering what John was nervous about, but he hadn't been able to keep his hands on the neck of the bass. Simon had neither looked at him nor spoken to him, and John was torn between relief that there wasn't going to be a public scene and the leftover hurt and anger from the morning.

His stomach roiled uncomfortably, and he absently wondered if he were going to be able to eat before the show. He knew he needed to; otherwise he could cap off his day perfectly by passing out on stage.

He sighed, absently starting the heavy bassline of "P.L. You" with only half his attention on the music. Not that he could be much more humiliated than he'd been that morning.

"Listen, I want to change the set list a bit."

Simon's voice, harsh, broke John's train of thought, and he looked up at him right along with the rest of the band, startled. It wasn't that they _never_ changed the set list, certainly...but the cold, set look on the singer's face caused him to turn away, inadvertently catching Nick's eye. Nick raised one eyebrow in cool inquiry, and John shrugged back, half-raising his thin shoulders. It was Warren who finally spoke.

"Yeah?" he asked, pausing to sip at whatever vegetable cocktail he was on now. "How so?"

"I was thinking about adding 'Careless Memories' to the mix," Simon answered, his tone controlled, neutral.

John happened to be looking down as he readjusted his bass strap so it wasn't cutting into his shoulder, so he didn't think anyone else saw him flinch. He could feel Simon's cold blue eyes on him, so he kept his expression blank as he brought his head back up, shoulders shrugging back into place.

"Anyone have any problems with that?" he asked, looking from John to Warren to Nick to the fill-in drummer behind the kit and back at John, eyes narrowed slightly as though he expected John to object.

"I'll need to do some re-programming," Nick answered, first, as the other three shook their heads, but the keyboardist was watching John and Simon, green eyes flicking back and forth between them. John recognized the look, but managed to keep his own face blank, refusing to let Nick take his measure. Simon had a lot of nerve, taking _that_ song and turning it into a weapon; John had always liked the bitter energy of it. The irony of having that turned on him was harsh indeed.

Nick finally shrugged and turned to talk to his roadie. John, sighing, picked out the first few measures of "Careless Memories" on his bass before looking back at Simon and Warren.

"Where were we?"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

They broke early from sound check, and Nick intercepted John as he attempted to sneak out of the venue.

"I'm going to grab a bit of lunch, Johnny, care to join me?" he asked, his tone mild and his expression neutral.

John shrugged and finished pulling on his jacket as he followed Nick out to the curb.

"Why do you bother asking?" he finally said, causing Nick to squint up at him.

"How do you mean?"

"Nick," John sighed, "you only ask if I'd 'care to join you' when you expect me to come along. Whether I want to or not. So why do you bother asking?"

Nick arced one eyebrow.

"I don't know. Probably because you'd rip my head off if I demanded you come."

John looked across the road and pursed his lips a moment before he gave up and smiled, tiredly.

"Probably. Where are we going?"

"Warren said there was decent vegetarian about a block up this way."

John deliberately missed a step and turned to look at the synthesist.

"And you're _walking_? All that distance? You might break something."

"Like what? A sweat? Nonsense, John. I've walked further than this exploring museums," Nick responded with a chuckle.

"Yeah, indoors in a nice, controlled environment, not outdoors in the middle of summer during a heat wave," John replied, still grinning. It felt good to tease with Nick - he hadn't quite dared since the divorce had started, and it made a nice anodyne to the morning's events.

Nick didn't answer him, just reached out and socked him in the arm.

"Hey, watch that!" John said, as Nick laughed. "I need those."

"Yes, I'd hate to disarm you."

John obediently groaned at the pun, then sighed again as they both grew solemn.

"You can tell we're past the heyday," he commented. "We wouldn't have been able to walk a block then."

"We're not past anything," Nick replied tartly, "except maybe the bunny-chuckers. We're just in a lull between albums, that's all."

"What do you call 'Thank You," then?"

"Less of a disaster than 'Liberty'...this is the place."

John looked dubiously at the hole-in-the-wall fade, but the inside was nicer than the outside would suggest; dark, pleasantly cool after the hot sun outside and filled with enough good smells that he felt his stomach grumble in interest. A young woman of middle-eastern ancestry escorted them to a table, and they settled into silence.

They didn't speak to each other again until their orders reached the table. In the silence John's mind kept looping back to the day's tensions, leaving him trapped by his own thoughts, but when he glanced at Nick he recognized the distant look and faint frown and left his friend alone until he was ready to speak.

They dined in the same silence, John only picking at his food after all. He finally leaned back and sighed.

"I can't wait to get back to LA," he said as he stretched his legs out under the table, aware that Nick's would be properly crossed and therefore out of his way.

Nick looked up at him, and John felt his stomach tense even more at the look in his friend's eyes.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that," Nick said, pausing to take a sip of his wine.

"How so?" John asked warily, drawing himself up a little straighter in his chair.

"Charley and I have been talking about it, John. We want you to move back to London."

John shook his head, his lips tightening. "We've been over this before, Nick."

Nick set his napkin back on the table and met John's eyes. "I know, Johnny, but it's gotten damned difficult to work with you _there_ and the rest of us _here_. Warren has enough sense to stay out of it, but Charley's of the mind that either you come back to London or we give you your walking papers."

He sipped his wine again, looking away as John felt something twist in his chest. He brought both hands up and ran them through his hair, licking at his lips as he tried to wrap his mind around what Nick was telling him. _Walking papers? From_ our _band? Oh, no, this is_ not _happening,_ he thought as he struggled to sort out what he wanted to say first.

Nick glanced back up at him, and John heard the concern in his voice as Nick said his name.

"Um...I'll get mad in just a second," he said, hoarsely. The anger _was_ there; he could feel it boiling up like the acid burning his stomach but it was not yet as strong as the urge to walk out and find oblivion. Hell, he could just order enough wine here to get drunk; it wouldn't be the first time he'd been on stage when he could barely stand.

"How long?" he managed to squeeze out around the tightness in his throat.

"There's been no time set," Nick said, puzzled, but John shook his head sharply.

"No, how long have you been talking about it? When did he suggest this?" John asked, keeping his voice low and only just succeeding to hold off the note of desperation. The fear gripped his stomach, tightened the muscles of his back at the thought that the scene this morning had precipitated this. He swallowed back bile and clenched his fists under the table.

Nick looked surprised, briefly, but said, "We haven't spoken about it since the tour started, John."

The fear receded, leaving only John's anger behind.

"You're threatening me, then?" he demanded, only just remembering to keep his voice pitched low. Nick still glanced around the room as John leaned forward. "You're going to ask _me_ to leave?"

Nick leaned back in his chair away from John and held up one hand.

"It isn't like that at all, Johnny," he answered, his voice still neutral. "We haven't come to any sort of decision. I just thought you should know we were talking about it."

"Bullshit, Nick," he snapped. "I thought I made it clear that I am _not_ leaving Los Angeles. I _hate_ London. You lot can call me when you're actually ready to work - it's not like Charley bothers spending much time around Privacy - but I am _not_ leaving my daughter longer than I have to."

"No one is asking you to," Nick answered, and John wondered that he could still be so calm. "Don't shout, John."

John raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked sharply, keeping his voice down to a low growl even as his fists clenched beneath the table. "I'm not going to uproot her - I'm certainly not going to rip her away from her mother. Amanda is settled in Los Angeles."

"None of us would blame you if you did, Johnny. We all know that Amanda is not a - "

John shot to his feet, holding one finger under Nick's nose.

"Finish that sentence," he said, feeling his vocal cords strain as he kept his voice low, "and I guarantee you we will make the news tonight."

Nick raised an eyebrow at him, half-challenging, but said, "Sit down, John."

John shook his head, straightening up and pulling his jacket off the back of the chair.

"No," he said tersely, "I'm finished here. I'll see you tonight."

John stalked away from the table, ignoring the sideways glances of the other diners as he drew his jacket on and shoved the door open.

He scowled as he stepped out into the fading sunlight, squinting after the cave-like darkness of the restaurant. He almost didn't see the group of fans across the street; when he did he hesitated a moment, struggled to dredge up a smile. He could feel it turning into a snarl and turned on his heel to head back down to the venue, ignoring them. His stomach tightened up another notch, forcing him to swallow several times so guilt and bile didn't rise up his throat and choke him.

 _So much for being the 'accessible one',_ he thought, fancying he could hear disappointed murmurs behind him. He didn't dare look back, though; if he were going to stay on this path he would have to maintain the illusion that he'd been too blinded by the sun to see them. _The sun, or something, anyway._

His hands balled up into fists. How _dare_ Nick put him in this position. Duran was his band, his baby as much as Nick's...or Charley's, and of course it was Simon who wanted him out. Or so Nick said.

John's stomach churned; if any of the girls behind him called his name he couldn't hear it over the roaring in his ears - or maybe that sound was his molars grinding together. Because Nick _was_ threatening him, and they both knew it.

 _When did things go so sour between us?_ he wondered, back relaxing minimally as he stepped back into the sanctuary of backstage. He leaned against a wall. _And it's not just Nick and I that have a problem._ Acid burned the back of his throat, like the tears burning behind his eyes.

"David!" He called, suddenly, spotting their sound-crew's assistant across the hall. David glanced up at him, then changed direction and headed John's way.

"Hey, John, we thought you left 'til the show."

"I had," John answered, the words sharply clipped. "Listen, call me a cab, willya? Oh, and David," John said, licking his upper lip as David started to turn away, "You still have connections around here?"

David looked up at him shrewdly. "Maybe. Why?"

John scowled at him. "You know what I want."

David grinned at him, setting John's teeth on edge. "What've you got on you?"

John automatically glanced around before he pulled out his wallet and shoved a handful of bills at David. "Just leave me enough for the cab, right?"

"Sure," David answered, tucking the cash in his own pocket after peeling off a twenty and passing it back to John. As his hand closed over the money he felt something hard in the center and he raised an eyebrow.

David shrugged and grinned wolfishly. "Hey, I'm always prepared. But I thought you were walking the straight and narrow these days."

"Yeah?" John turned on his heel and walked away. "I slipped."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

John leaned back in his chair, absently running a thumb under his nose as he watched the electric starbursts begin behind his eyes, felt the wave of confidence rush through him. He sighed, feeling energy return as the knot evaporated from his stomach, all the stress of the day dissolving into a cocaine daze.

 _It won't last,_ some still-rational part of his mind protested. He snorted. _Nothing lasts. Just so I get through tonight._

He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling without really seeing anything. He thought of Atlanta, guilt causing his stomach to tense up again briefly. He shut his eyes and rested the back of his hand against his forehead, breathing in deeply.

 _I'll stop when the tour ends and I'm back at home._ He sighed. _This is just to get me through. I'm not alone, anyway - Nick drinks, Charley,_ a half-snarl twisted his lips, _Charley does whatever the fuck he pleases. Even Warren - shit, he's as addicted to the idea of being healthy as the rest of us are to our drugs of choice._

He stood up, pulling his jacket off the bed where he'd tossed it when he came in, and took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He walked over to the balcony as he lit one, drawing in the smoke deeply, feeling the burn in the back of his throat.

 _We'll be done soon enough, anyway,_ he thought, leaning over the railing and studying the cars rushing by on the street below. _I can be a stay-at-home dad for a while, go back to working with Matt and Duff. And Steve._

He exhaled, watching the smoke drift up to join the rest of the smog in the air. _Hm. Maybe not. Not 'til I've got my shit back together..._

In a sudden burst of temper he flicked the half-smoked cigarette out over the balcony and watched it fall. _Fuck him. Fuck them all. And to hell with Nick, anyway, and his veiled threats and carefully worded warnings._

He abruptly left the balcony, flopping down on the bed as he checked his watch. He had plenty of time before he had to get back to the venue. He frowned, thinking, and reached for the hotel phone.

He paused with his hand on the receiver, but then finished the gesture and dialed for an outside line.

"Hey, Andy? Yeah, it's me," he said, pulling another cigarette out of the pack and bringing it to his lips. "I've changed my mind. Let's do it."


End file.
